


No One Knows You Better

by LynnLarsh



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Gaslighting, M/M, dark!Sherlock, sociopath!sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-11-27 12:08:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/661840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LynnLarsh/pseuds/LynnLarsh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John loses his memory. Sherlock sees it as an opportunity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Though in many ways I feel like Sherlock believes what he's doing is for the betterment of John (and himself), there are still traces of dark!Sherlock/sociopath!Sherlock ahead. Perhaps a bit more than traces depending on what glasses you're wearing. It was an idea I simply couldn't get out of my mind. I apologize in advance if it doesn't float your boat, but the warnings are there. Let me know if I missed any.
> 
> I may write either a second chapter to this, or a different fic that takes the same concept and goes in an initially platonic but ultimately romantic direction. This concept won out in the end, but that original bit of fluff could still end up being written someday.

A piece of plywood to the side of the head, just far enough away that Sherlock could only watch John crumple, unmoving, to the concrete floor. The assailant had been running, John had been chasing, Sherlock had been sneaking, trying to catch him off guard, but he’d picked up the weapon without being seen, had struck before Sherlock could get there, before John could even aim his gun. Sherlock disarmed him easily enough, but John still wasn’t moving. Breathing, yes, but moving, no. So Sherlock called Lestrade, usually preferred to text, but this was important, this demanded attention now, John demanded attention now, and his hands were shaking. So many possible injuries, so many possible repercussions, so many possible outcomes to this that Sherlock found himself unable to not think about, even as the paramedics took them both to the hospital and wheeled John inside and left Sherlock waiting and waiting and waiting and thinking, _Caring is a disadvantage_ , over and over again until they didn’t sound like words anymore.

 

They finally came to get Sherlock an hour later, the longest hour of his life, and before the staff could comment on it, Sherlock was inside John’s room and next to John’s bed and holding John in his arms because John was alive and _only slight bandaging around the forehead, bruising around the left eye_ and alive and _dazed, confused, focus not quite restored_ and alive. So Sherlock kissed him, didn’t realize he was doing it until it was almost over, but he couldn’t have helped himself even if he’d wanted to. Which he really, truly, surprisingly didn’t. 

When he pulled away, the look on John’s face was stunned. Stunned and flushed and not quite right. No, not right at all. Something was very wrong, very off, something about John’s face, John’s eyes which suddenly didn’t know where to look, John’s lips still wet with Sherlock’s saliva and twitching with something more than uncertainty. So much more.

“So, um,” John cleared his throat, finally forcing himself to keep eye contact. “I’m so sorry, but are you my… boyfriend, then? Or… Or husband or something?”

Sherlock was at the foot of John’s bed in an instant, picking up John’s chart and flipping through page after page until he found the words: retrograde amnesia. He almost dropped the clipboard.

“I’m sorry, I just,” John stuttered, voice both himself and not himself, tinged with an unfamiliar nervousness, an uncharacteristic lack of confidence. “I can’t seem to make sense of anything.”

When Sherlock looked up again, John looked apologetic. And possibly a bit frightened. It was so very, very wrong. But Sherlock could make it better. He’d be a fool not to try.

“Yes, John,” Sherlock whispered, sitting at the edge of the bed and grabbing hold of one of John’s hands. “Boyfriends, yes. I’m here, love. You’re alright now.”

“I don’t remember your name,” John looked away again, embarrassed and vulnerable and piece by piece, everything fell into place. Sherlock had been given an opportunity in this, a chance to make John see himself the way Sherlock saw him, to make him better for himself. And for Sherlock. He’d been given a gift and he would not waste it, not for a second.

“I’m Sherlock,” he smiled, placing a hand against John’s cheek like they shared touches this intimate every day. Because now they did. “Let’s get you home.”

 

He was allowed to check John out of the hospital a few hours later, the warnings listened to but ignored. Only Sherlock knew what John needed now. He needed 221B, he needed a cup of tea, and possibly some welcome home fellatio. He’d never attempted the ritual before, but this seemed like something they would share in together, so he intended to provide. John’s new life, or rather, the life he’d simply forgotten, would lack nothing.

“They said I was attacked,” John said eventually, looking out of the cab window and trying to process what he was seeing, trying desperately to remember something if the wrinkle between his brow was anything to go by. Sherlock could make that go away too.

As tenderly as possible, Sherlock reached across the seat and gently grabbed John’s chin, pulling his attention back to where it was meant to be. “We have a dangerous job, you and I. I solve crimes and you protect me.”

“You’re like a detective?” John asked, and Sherlock nodded.

“Consulting Detective. The only one in the world. I invented the job.” 

Sherlock’s heart leapt at the look of amazement in his eyes, John’s old, untarnished amazement, the same one from all those years ago, on that first day. An amazement that was fresh and new and pointed back at Sherlock like he’d never witnessed his brilliance before. Which, Sherlock supposed, he hadn’t. Yet.

“Then I’m… Like your bodyguard?”

“And more, John,” Sherlock indulged himself, looping a hand around to the back of John’s neck and luring him in, capturing John’s mouth the way he’d always wanted to, the way he’d never allowed himself to want to. He broke away and John looked dazed, hot, melting beneath Sherlock’s touch. “So much more.”

 

John walked up the stairs to 221B without being told, not the best of signs, but something Sherlock was willing to put down to muscle memory, not cognitive recognition. Especially when John stopped halfway up as though realizing he didn’t know where to go. Sherlock wrapped an arm around his waist and led him the rest of the way, forcing down the excitement that bubbled when John leaned into him willingly, almost eagerly. 

“Welcome home, John,” Sherlock whispered into John’s ear, lowering his voice to an almost seductive purr. “Go ahead and sit down. I’ll get you a cup of tea.”

“You solve crimes by day and make me cups of tea by night,” John chuckled, still uneasy, but learning, willing his battered mind to accept the facts that Sherlock was presenting. “How did I get so lucky?”

Sherlock opted out of telling John that it was usually the other way around on the tea---he supposed he could be the provider of that little domesticity for now, if need be---and put the kettle to boil, pulling John’s favorite mug from the cupboard before answering. “I’m the lucky one, you know that. Well, knew that, I suppose. You’ll remember eventually.”

“And if I don’t?” Sherlock heard John whisper, the words meant for himself, then, not for listening ears. But Sherlock knew the answer nonetheless. If John never remembered, mind truly damaged beyond self-repair, then these new memories, the ones Sherlock provided for him, would be the only ones to define him. Sherlock had to be sure they were perfect in every way. Just in case.

Once the tea was ready, Sherlock joined John on the couch, lowering the mug carefully into his hands before placing his lips against John’s neck, a single kiss against the pulse point. John shuddered, already trembling under Sherlock’s touch. It was intoxicating. Sherlock had been aware of John’s attraction to him for some time, but his blatant attempt at heterosexuality had deluded even himself, so Sherlock had let it be. This new John wouldn’t hold himself back, he’d be allowed the things he’d always wanted, the things that Sherlock could see when he was too blind or foolish or distracted. Sherlock had the chance to give him that now. A gift, like he’d been given in the quiet, vulnerable mold of clay that was the man at his side.

“I’m sorry I’m not more… talkative,” John mumbled, staring into his mug as if it could give him the answers. If only John knew; he merely needed to look to the left.

“It’s alright, John,” Sherlock wrapped an arm around John’s shoulders and pulled him in close, rubbing circles into the back of his neck until the tension began to ease there. “It must be frightening for you.”

“I feel like I’m dreaming,” John admitted, his hands shaking just enough for the tea to ripple, but not enough to be reminiscent of his tremor left behind by a bullet wound and poorly diagnosed PTSD. This was also a good sign. John’s frown deepened as he went on. “Like everything is just out of reach, familiar but only when I’m not thinking about it. Does that make sense?”

“You’ve suffered an injury,” Sherlock got up and walked behind the couch, resting both hands on John’s shoulders and gently massaging out the tension there as well. “You’ll recover from it like you always do. And I’ll be there to help you every step of the way.”

“And you say you’re the lucky one?” John let out an exasperated chuckle, tilting his head back and closing his eyes, relaxing under Sherlock’s dexterous hands.

“I am, John,” Sherlock replied softly, letting one hand slip beneath John’s jumper, feeling the as of yet untouched---by Sherlock---collarbone, chest, right nipple of John Watson. His John now. Except, that simple ghosting of fingertips wasn’t met with the arching of his back or a gasp from between parted lips. Instead, John shot up, off the couch and away from Sherlock’s touch, the cup of tea spilling all over John’s front, his shoes, the floor. 

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” John was panicking, Sherlock could see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice, so he walked calmly back around to John’s side, picked up the mug and grabbed both of John’s hands in his own, offering a comforting squeeze. When John finally looked at him, he looked mortified. And confused. “I don’t know why I did that. I’m so sorry, I don’t know why…” John swallowed, closing his eyes to ground himself. Sherlock let him work through it, running a thumb along John’s knuckles until he finally asked in a low, broken voice, “Why did I do that?”

“Let’s get you out of these wet clothes,” Sherlock smiled comfortingly, putting a hand to the small of John’s back and guiding him to his bedroom, their bedroom now. John took off layer after layer with no small amount of hesitance, but he was trying. Despite whatever engrained concern was going off inside his head, John was following Sherlock’s lead, allowing himself to be led. So Sherlock allowed him to undress himself, kept his hands off newly unveiled flesh, and grabbed a pair of his pajama bottoms. They would be a bit long on him, but Sherlock had meant to get John dressing better. Perhaps he could go out while John was sleeping and pick him up a few new outfits, slip them into his closet. Not enough to look out of place, but just enough for John to recognize the option.

When Sherlock turned around, John was naked from the waist up and staring at himself in Sherlock’s mirror, arm across his chest and hand gripped loosely over his shoulder. His face looked conflicted, lost, sad, broken. But if Sherlock had his way, John wouldn’t stay broken for long.

“It’s strange, like I’ve never seen myself before,” John bit his lip, hand gripping tighter on his shoulder, palm digging into the skin. “I only know my own name because you keep calling me John. But if not even my own face is familiar to me,” John was practically hugging himself now, his other arm looped around his waist, nails digging into his side. “I should know my own face, Sherlock. I grew up with this face, didn’t I?”

Sherlock stepped in then, wrapped his arms over John’s and forced him to let go, willing him to let go of everything else as well. “It’ll come back. You’re halfway there just by being here, John Watson. It’ll be fine, I promise you.”

“Watson… John Watson,” John breathed, voice shaky but settling as he let himself relax, let his arms drop to his sides. He was looking at his shoulder, his scar, the gruesome, beautiful twists of skin and tissue. “How did it happen?” He turned away from the mirror, his gaze questioning and open and vulnerable and anything Sherlock said right now he would believe. So he placed his palm over John’s scar and kissed him lightly, tenderly on the forehead.

“You took a bullet for me.”

“I did?” John whispered, looking up at Sherlock in awe, amazement, this time for himself, for what he was starting to realize was his devotion for Sherlock.

“I’m alive today because of you.” True, if not a bit out of context, but John swallowed it up all the same, believed it like scripture, because now it might as well have been, now it was fact. John wasn’t wounded in Afghanistan, he was wounded saving Sherlock’s life, and it was the moment in which he knew, the moment in which they both knew.

“I must really love you, then, don’t I?” John placed both hands on Sherlock’s chest, eyes distant as if trying to remember the feel of it, the moments that had made it so, but he was living them now, experiencing them now, so Sherlock chose to keep him in the present. Sherlock tilted his head down and brushed his lips against John’s again, hesitantly waiting for another reaction like the tea, but John was pliant this time, kissing him back, going off of feel instead of emotional chaos. This was good, a fabulous sign, and one Sherlock wasted no time taking advantage of.

He had John lying back on the bed within moments, his trousers and pants pushed down his thighs enough for his cock to spring free, only half hard yet but Sherlock had barely begun. Sherlock knelt between spread legs and kissed his way down John’s chest, his stomach, finally wrapping a hand around the base of John’s already growing erection. John did gasp then, back slightly arched as his hands clung for purchase in the sheets. Sherlock stroked him once, just to see him do it again.

“Sh-Sherlock,” John was already trembling, legs twitching as Sherlock inched himself back enough to line up the head with his mouth. And suddenly John’s hand was on the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair and John had done that all on his own. Whether by accident or by choice, it didn’t matter, it was enough of a sign for Sherlock to let John’s cock breach his parted lips, let the taste of skin and musk and sweat coat his tongue with the flavor of John. “Sher-” John tried again, voice taking on that similar edge of panic again, the lack of familiarity slowly winning out, but he was hard and throbbing beneath Sherlock’s tongue, so not winning completely. John was torn, brutally so, and it was Sherlock’s job to make his decision more clear, keep his thoughts on the moment, on the facts, on the beliefs that Sherlock was offering with every light scrape of teeth and moaning vibration around sensitive skin. 

John was bucking into his mouth now, not hard, restrained and fighting against himself still, but the motion was there, Sherlock looking up to find John panting harshly, his free arm thrown across his eyes. Sherlock pulled off of John’s cock with an almost audible pop, stroking him with a fast, tight grip, John’s head thrown back and his mouth falling open.

“Stop fighting me, John,” Sherlock whispered, low and stern into John’s ear. “You know what you feel, just give in to it. Give in, John. I’ll catch you.” Sherlock ran his thumb over the head in a slick circle, gathering the precum there before jerking John off to completion. “Let go.”

John’s whole body went taught, his dick twitching in Sherlock’s hand as he came in hard, painful looking spurts, his seed splattering hot against Sherlock’s fingers, his own stomach. Sherlock held on to him until he collapsed back into the sweat soaked bed sheets, his chest heaving and a look in his eyes that was both sated and terrified. Sherlock picked up John’s jumper and wiped his hand and John’s stomach clean before joining John on the bed, gathering the fragile, damaged man into his arms. He clung to Sherlock instantly, shaking well past when his heart should have slowed.

“I don’t understand, Sherlock,” John whispered, voice cracking on his name. “My heart won’t stop racing. I feel like I’m running for my life and I can’t figure out why. Why does none of this feel right? I want to feel right, I want to remember, and I can’t, Sherlock. Why can’t I remember this?” He ran a hand over his face. “I can feel myself responding, but it’s like it’s backwards, it’s incomplete and I don’t know how to fix it! You’re a detective, right? Solve this for me, Sherlock, please!” John buried his head in Sherlock’s chest, not crying, because his John never cried, but shaking all the same. At war with himself. But Sherlock could still make it better. Sherlock would make it right.

“It’s going to be fine,” Sherlock said, voice soft and kind, as soothing as the circles he was rubbing along John’s spine. “I know you better than you know yourself right now, John Watson. You just have to trust me.” Sherlock pulled back enough to look at John’s face, his eyes full with worry and fear and Sherlock could only place a hand against John’s cheek and a kiss between the eyebrows, softening the wrinkles there once again. “Do you trust me, John?”

John looked at him for a long time, mind, body, and heart searching for the answer that both of them already knew to be true. Until eventually, he took a deep breath and nodded, leaning into Sherlock’s touch and closing his eyes. “Of course, Sherlock. Of course.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John loses his memory. Sherlock sees it as an opportunity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same notes as chapter one. Only now, apparently, this has become a chapter fic with no definite ending. Thanks guys.

John was doing well. Not completely without the occasional internal conflict, but generally content to follow the pattern Sherlock had laid out for him, live the oblivious life of the trustworthy, the submissive. And he was beautiful in it, a new protectiveness Sherlock had never felt for the man before settling like a constant warmth beneath his breastbone.

After that first night, Sherlock had made sure to send John away for groceries, giving him an extensive list, cab fare, and directions to the Tesco furthest from their flat without being suspicious. While he was gone, Sherlock removed every trace of the old John---the one that had haunted John for so long, broken him, tortured him, damaged him, and for all intents and purposes, annoyed Sherlock on many occasions---from every inch of the flat. By the time John returned home, all but a few pictures and the medical journals, which Sherlock could claim as his own until John’s medical knowledge became necessary, had been put into storage. Every reminder of John’s time in Afghanistan had been burned.

And when Mycroft texted him--- _This will backfire on you. Severely. MH_ \---Sherlock found the newly installed hidden cameras and got rid of those as well, making sure to do so while John was taking a shower. He needn’t know of Mycroft’s unwelcome involvement in their lives. It would only cause undo concern that his John didn’t need. His John didn’t need to be concerned about anything anymore.

Two nights later, however, John had his first nightmare.

Sherlock wasn’t unfamiliar with the sound of John’s pained whimpers or abrupt shouts in the middle of the night, though he hadn’t heard them in a long while, but he’d never experienced them in person, been woken up---on one of the rare nights he slept---by John’s thrashing, his screams loud in Sherlock’s ear, the feeling of a hand reaching under his pillow for a gun that wasn’t there, a gun that was hidden in the flat and out of John’s reach, one that his John shouldn’t know anything about. It had been a difficult call, keeping the man’s superb marksmanship to himself, but it was a part of the past that Sherlock felt he deserved not to be burdened by any longer, and if he needed that skill, he could remind John of it later. Right now, the lack of gun was proving a wise decision indeed.

“John! John, wake up!” Sherlock tried, grabbing hold of John’s arm and pulling him upright into a sitting position. John’s eyes were open but glazed, distant, scanning the room for something Sherlock couldn’t see. When Sherlock went to place a hand against John’s cheek, John scrambled out of Sherlock’s purchase and elbowed him in the face, falling out of the bed and haphazardly to the floor before realizing what he’d done. Sherlock felt at the tender spot beneath his right eye and hissed, looking over the edge of the bed at John’s face. Pain, terror, humiliation, confusion, guilt. 

“Oh god, Sherlock. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I have no idea what just happened, I…” He buried his face in his hands and took a deep, shaking breath. “I didn’t mean to, honest. Please don’t be upset with me, I swear I didn’t mean to.” Sherlock reached over the side of the bed and gently put a hand on the top of John’s head.

“It’s alright, John. You were just having a nightmare.” Sherlock said softly, soothingly. John shook his head, face still buried away, hidden from sight. Ashamed. Sherlock’s heart swelled for him. 

“What sort of nightmare would make me want to elbow you in the face?” John looked up then, eyes pleading. “I don’t even remember what I was dreaming about, Sherlock! What if it was something important?”

“It was nothing, John. I’m sure it was nothing.” Sherlock smiled, grabbing his hand and pulling him up. “Now come back to bed.”

“I should sleep in the guest bedroom tonight,” John mumbled, a spike of fear settling at the base of Sherlock’s skull. “It’ll be better if I’m not-”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock frowned, pulling John into the bed by force and wrapping his arms protectively around the man’s chest and waist. “You belong here. With me.”

“I don’t want to hurt you again,” John frowned, turning himself in Sherlock’s arms and touching lightly at the spot below his eye. “I don’t know what I’d do if I… You’re all I have, Sherlock. I’d never forgive myself.”

Sherlock shushed him, laying him down and covering them both with the blanket. “I’m not going anywhere, John. Sleep now. It’ll be better tomorrow.”

It happened every night for four days. On the fifth, Sherlock noticed John limping.

 

“Maybe I hurt it in the attack? The one that…” John cut himself off, tapping at this temple in lieu of finishing that sentence. Sherlock didn’t reply, too busy trying to figure out how to make it go away. He’d cured it before, he could do it again. This wasn’t working, this wasn’t right at all. He was looking at it all wrong. 

“Okay,” John cleared his throat. “I figured I’d go get it checked out either way. Make sure there isn’t nerve damage or-”

“No!” Sherlock blurted, realized his response by the look on John’s face, and tried again. “I mean, yes. Definitely a good idea. But I’ll take you.”

John couldn’t go back to the same hospital, not when there were staff members who he’d worked with, who’d want to check in on his health, ask him if he remembered anything, remind him that he was a doctor, which could remind him that he’d been an army doctor, which would remind him of everything. Because there was no going back once he remembered Afghanistan and all of Sherlock’s hard work will have been for nothing. No. He would take John to a smaller clinic, one where a man owed him a favor and wouldn’t ask for too much of John’s personal history.

“Alright. Good then,” John smiled at him. An honest, trusting, grateful smile, and Sherlock leaned in without thinking, kissed him square on the mouth, holding him there until John pulled away, chuckling. “I’m sure it’s nothing, Sherlock. No need to be worried.” Sherlock laughed with him, smiled back at him, and this John was so near perfect, it hurt. “I should probably take my cane, though, yeah? Just in case.”

Sherlock’s heart stopped. He’d gotten rid of the cane, his John had never seen the cane, knew nothing of the cane, shouldn’t even need the bloody cane. And even the look on John’s face said he hadn’t considered the words before speaking them, his mind skipping a connection to his mouth and producing something that Sherlock couldn’t simply put away in storage and pretend it never existed. Damn. Damn it all.

“Do I… Do I actually have a cane?” John asked hesitantly, hopefully, nervously, and he took the lifeline without question. Sherlock ran a hand through John’s hair and shook his head.

“No, John. You don’t. You’ve never needed one.”

John swallowed, smirking half-heartedly. “Oh. Well, let’s hope it stays that way, then, yeah?” He tried to offer a chuckle too, but the confusion had all but ruined his mood. And Sherlock’s.

“It will, John,” Sherlock grabbed John’s arm and looped it through his. “And in the meantime, you can lean on me. Sound fair?”

John laughed then, actually laughed, just like his old self. Sherlock didn’t know how to feel about that. “Fair enough. Shall we?”

 

John was in and out of the clinic with barely more than a, “Just try not to strain it,” and the advice to come back if it stiffened further. It should have gone smoothly, would have if John hadn’t stumbled on his way out of the room, catching himself on the slightly ajar office door across the hall.

“Sorry,” John backed away, holding a hand up in apology, the other still on the door handle. Which is where he froze, eyes scanning the patient on the table with a keen eye Sherlock recognized at once.

“We should go,” Sherlock said quickly, grabbing at John’s elbow, but he was frozen, weight evenly distributed on both legs and eyes wide as he took it all in.

Finally, when it seemed he’d seen whatever it was his subconscious was documenting, John whispered, “Prurigo Gestationis.” Sherlock glanced inside under the guise of pulling John away, getting himself a good look at the patient in question. A woman, late thirties, in her last trimester. She had her shirt raised over the bulge of her stomach to reveal a spattering of red dots along her abdomen. 

“Sorry to bother you,” Sherlock said, leading John back into the hall. His eyes were distant, calculating, the information pouring out of his mouth like he had no control over it.

“Prurigo Gestationis. She’s in her last week of pregnancy, the late form of the rash developing in spots along the abdomen and stretch marks. It’s usually completely clear three weeks after childbirth.” John pinched at the bridge of his nose as if warding off a headache. “No serious complications to mother or child. Simple treatment of antihistamine tablets.” John looked up at Sherlock wide eyed. “How do I know that?” He grabbed Sherlock’s arm tightly, face hopeful. “Am I a doctor?” Sherlock frowned.

He didn’t answer right away, let himself weigh the pros and cons of each possible response. Doctor John H. Watson wasn’t his John, but there were definite perks of the good doctor’s knowledge, his logic, his bravery in the face of any bodily harm to Sherlock or himself. It would be unwise to ignore, and near impossible to persuade John otherwise after that display.

“You used to be,” Sherlock looped his arm through John’s again and walked him out of the clinic to the street, occasionally raising his free arm to hail a cab. “You were brilliant. And you loved it.”

“Why’d I stop?” John asked, genuinely curious, not mourning the loss of that part of himself at all. Another good sign.

“You found something you love better,” Sherlock smiled, leaving it at that. If John decided to interpret that something as Sherlock, there was no harm in it. If he figured it was something still as of yet unrevealed, Sherlock would find something to fill that gap just like with everything else.

 

Lestrade was waiting for them in the flat when they got home, Sherlock ushering John into the kitchen without a word to the DI.

“Make us some tea, would you, love?” Sherlock asked kindly, hoping the tension wasn’t seeping into his voice. John nodded, already filling the kettle with water. Before Sherlock could leave, however, John leaned in with a whisper.

“Do I know that man?”

Sherlock hesitated, but figured it best to keep the story simple in this one. John he could control, but what might come out of Lestrade’s mouth was another matter entirely. “He’s Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. He’s probably here with a case. You’ve met him from time to time at crime scenes.”

“Ah,” John nodded, placing the kettle on the burner with a distant smile. “Well that’s good then, isn’t it? A case?” John looked at him again, hopeful again, trying to remember again, and Sherlock had to stop himself from walking away. “Maybe being out in the field will do me some good. Remind me of what I’ve been doing with my life.” Thankfully, he was looking back at the kettle then, unable to see the grimace that had wormed its way onto Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock forced it aside and wrapped his arms around John’s chest, kissing him on the neck. “Perhaps it would be best if you sat this one out until you feel better.” No. No, that wasn’t right. He needed his John. He needed him there to show off for, to draw inspiration from, to giggle with. That wasn’t right at all. “I mean,” Sherlock tried again, frowning. “Just for now. Maybe the next one?” Better, but still not quite there, not quite what he wanted. John nodded regardless and Sherlock let go, leaving him to the tea as he went into the sitting room with Lestrade. 

The man was eyeing him suspiciously, which was never good where Lestrade was concerned. He made unforgivable mistakes when he was suspicious. “So how’s he doing, then?” Lestrade asked quietly, making sure John couldn’t hear. “They told me you checked him out of the hospital. Wasn’t he still-?”

“It was nothing I couldn’t help him through here.” Sherlock cut him off with a glare. Lestrade sat on that for a moment before nodding.

“I suppose the best place for him would be where all the memories are, yeah?” Sherlock said nothing, so Lestrade went on. “They say cases like his can heal themselves over time with the right attention. I’m sure he’ll be back to himself in-”

“Did you come here for a reason, or just to check in on my flatmate’s well-being?” Sherlock interrupted again just in time for John to appear, a cup of tea in hand for Sherlock and Lestrade.

“I’m your flatmate now, am I?” John offered what he thought was a playful grin, but at the look on Sherlock’s face, he smothered it. Confusion mixed with apology mixed with hurt took its place.

“Can you give us a moment, John?” Sherlock asked as gingerly as he could manage, relieved when John instantly turned back to the kitchen, taking his own cup of tea from the kitchen and disappearing into their bedroom. Lestrade was staring at him, eyebrow raised, when he looked back.

“What was that about?”

“Nothing that concerns you.” Sherlock waved him away. “So what exactly are you here for, Detective Inspector?”

Lestrade stared at him long enough for Sherlock to grow suspicious himself, and when he finally spoke, it was somewhat unexpected. “Has he talked to his family yet?”

“No, why would he?” Sherlock crossed his arms, and at the look on Lestrade’s face, he realized his mistake. Bit not good. Bit not good and no John to catch him before he made it worse. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

“He needs to let his family know what’s going on, Sherlock!” Lestrade shouted, stunned. Sherlock would have to fix this later. He would have to fix everything later. So much to fix, more and more every day. Why was this so hard? “They could help him-”

“ _I’m_ helping him!” Sherlock shouted back. “I’m all he needs.”

“You weren’t there for his childhood, Sherlock.” Lestrade frowned, deeply, deeply something with him. More than angry. Ah. Appalled. “He needs them to fill in those gaps if you want him to get better.”

“He’s already getting better. Better every day. Now if you don’t have a case for me, then please,” Sherlock got to his feet and motioned at the door. “Show yourself out.” He sat himself back down, pointedly not looking at Lestrade anymore. This conversation was over. But, as expected of the Detective Inspector, Lestrade didn’t give in.

“Something’s not right here, Sherlock.” Lestrade got to his feet, tea untouched. How rude. His John had made that. “I’ll find out eventually, and God forbid, if you're doing any sort of experiments on John or-”

Sherlock was on his feet and in Lestrade’s face in an instant. “Get out.” He growled, not touching the DI, of course not, but close, very, very close, close enough to make the man uncomfortable. “And don’t come back here again.” Lestrade blinked, taking a step away then, and Sherlock straightened his back, smiling coolly. “If there’s a case, text me. Otherwise, you’re no longer welcome on my property. Good day, Detective Inspector.”

"This isn't over, Sherlock," Lestrade tried, but Sherlock turned towards the window, listening in silence to Lestrade’s hesitance, then his footsteps down the stairs---a bit unsettled---and watching as he got into a cab in front of 221B---a bit rushed. It was for the best. Lestrade would still invite him to crime scenes, the man was no fool, and this way, John wouldn’t be influenced by his misplaced concerns. John didn’t need his family to remind him of his alcoholic sister, his absent father he used to think Sherlock didn't even know about. He didn’t need his friends to remind him of his mostly likely mediocre University days or of the bitter, painful trials of war. All he needed was Sherlock. All the good memories were with Sherlock. Only Sherlock could give him what he truly needed.

 

“Oh fuck, Sherlock, please…” John panted into his ear, legs wrapped around Sherlock’s waist as he pounded harder, faster, deeper into John’s willing---so willing, so, so finally willing---arse, each thrust causing John to clench beautifully around him. “More, Sherlock. Just a bit more?” The way his voice lifted at the end like a question almost did Sherlock in right there, his submission even now, going far beyond the sex, far beyond his own needs, his own desires. As if Sherlock, finally and completely, came first, mattered more than anyone else.

“Yes, John,” Sherlock groaned, slipping John’s knees over his shoulders and thrusting just that much deeper, slapping against him with the force of it. John’s mouth fell openly deliciously when he came, Sherlock beyond the will to deny himself the claiming of that mouth, kissing John’s cries away, muffling them down his own throat. “Yes, John, yes,” Sherlock moaned as he jerked against John’s tense, unbelievably tight form, and buried himself to the hilt, filling his John to the brim with his seed, his ownership, his love. So much love, pouring out sticky and hot between them.

John let his legs fall to the bed, chest heaving with blissful satisfaction, lazy with it, beautiful for it. “I got to do that all the time?” John licked his lips, chuckling breathily, and Sherlock had to remind himself that this wasn’t their first time, this was one of many, many times he’d taken John like this. And when it was John’s turn to take him, that would be far from their first as well. In the back of his mind, Sherlock mourned the loss of a shared first experience, but he abandoned it quickly. To John, this was both his first and his umpteenth time being thoroughly ravaged by Sherlock, and it wouldn’t be his last. That’s what mattered. That’s what mattered.

“Does that surprise you?” Sherlock grinned, nuzzling into John’s neck and kissing at the hollow behind his ear. John blushed.

“A little bit, yeah,” he replied softly, smiling shyly. “It felt like I’d never done that before, like my body couldn’t process the experience. It was just too overwhelming. Too brilliant all at once.”

“I’m just that good,” Sherlock purred, kissing John deeply before rolling off the bed to grab a towel.

“I guess so,” John chuckled, but it sounded distant again. Why did he keep sounding distant? Eventually, once Sherlock had returned and cleaned them both up as best he could, John whispered, “Why’d you call me your flatmate earlier?”

Sherlock had considered this. A minor mishap easily corrected. “The Detective Inspector doesn’t like to admit it, but he suffers from no little amount of homophobia. We’d decided to keep our relationship from him until he seemed willing to accept it.” Sherlock brushed John’s sweat clumped fringe from his brow and kissed him there. “So flatmates.”

“Right,” John nodded, settling further against Sherlock, already drifting away. “He didn’t seem the homophobic type.”

“They rarely do,” Sherlock mumbled against John’s forehead. 

 

There was no nightmare that night, John’s smile greeting him sleepily from within Sherlock’s arms the next morning. When the silence lingered long enough to be curious, Sherlock offered a smile of his own, mumbling a surprisingly lazy, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” John stretched, kissing Sherlock on the nose once he’d settled back under the covers. “I just feel… Happy, I guess. Lucky.”

“Lucky?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow, still smiling. He couldn’t stop smiling if he tried.

“I know it’s probably just because of the,” John touched his temple again. “But it still feels new to me. It feels fresh and unexpected and I feel lucky. I get to see your gorgeous face when I first wake up in the morning. It feels… unbelievable.”

Sherlock kissed him then, hard and long and if John hadn’t pushed him away with a laugh, mumbling something about still being sore, Sherlock could have had him again right then, in a sleepy, perfect tangle of limbs.

“I’ll be back,” John sighed, wrenching himself away from Sherlock’s clutches and out of the bed. “Mother nature bows to no one.”

“Neither does my desire to have you fuck me into the mattress the moment you get back,” Sherlock replied, voice sultry and low. John blanched, frozen halfway out the door before laughing loudly, jovially.

“Looks like I’ll have to get used to that again too.” He winked. And then he was gone, Sherlock stretching into the whole of the bed before relaxing again, waiting for John, thinking about what John would soon do to him, all the things Sherlock had fantasized about finally his. Thanks to his John.

“I don’t know how much longer I can wait!” Sherlock called out, running both hands from chest to stomach to right above his hardening erection. Indulging himself, he wrapped a hand around the base and gave his length a good, slow stroke. “If you’re not up here soon, I’ll be forced to finish without you.”

“Jesus, has no one taught you patience?” John’s voice echoed from the bathroom. Sherlock almost responded--- _You did, once. You taught me a lot of things. Now I get to teach you._ \---but instead, just stilled his hand, squeezing but doing no more. Again, john’s voice called out to him, this time from the sitting room. “Your phone has a text. Want me to bring it to you?”

“Leave it,” Sherlock groaned. “We have more important things to concern ourselves with, don’t you think?” John didn’t respond. Nor could Sherlock hear his footsteps returning to the room. Was he standing in the sitting room, biding his time, making Sherlock squirm? Sherlock smirked. He was loving his John more and more. “I’ve got my hand on my cock, John.” He called out, stroking once more before letting go. “I’m hard and desperate and waiting for you, John.” He added, spreading his legs. “Am I going to have to prepare myself too? Or are you-?” 

Sherlock sat up. It had been distant and soft, intentionally quiet, but he’d heard it all the same.

Sherlock didn’t even bother putting on his dressing gown, out of bed and stumbling naked into the sitting room at once. John wasn’t there, he wasn’t in the bathroom, he wasn’t in the kitchen. Where was he? Sherlock ran to the window just in time to see a familiar black car pull away from their flat. Even with the standard issue tinted windows, Sherlock knew without a doubt that John was inside. But why? Why, why, why, wh-? Sherlock spun around to where he remembered leaving his phone the night before. There it sat, still on the arm of his favorite chair, but it was left open, recently checked.

John had said he’d gotten a message. 

Sherlock nearly tripped over himself in his rush to get to the phone, opening it up to find the message already in place.

 _There’s a car waiting for you downstairs, Dr. Watson. I have the answers you seek._   
_MH_

Sherlock almost hurled his phone at the wall, considered it greatly, but then remembered the unfinished cup of tea and chucked that instead, the sound it made as it shattered, and the splatter of tea it left behind, weren’t nearly satisfying enough. So Sherlock let out a near animalistic shout, the sound of it wanton and surprising even to his own ears. Mycroft had probably been planning this for weeks, waiting for the opportunity to pry John away without Sherlock’s knowing. He’d gotten rid of John’s phone for that very reason. But he’d let his guard down. Damn him, damn him! Sherlock nearly threw his mobile again, instead, opening up a new message and pounding at the keys like they’d personally wronged him.

 _Give him back._   
_SH_

The response was practically instantaneous.

_He’s a good man, Sherlock. He doesn’t deserve this._   
_MH_

_Give. Him. Back. Now._   
_SH_

_If he wants to come back, I will not stand in his way. But even you cannot be foolish enough to believe that he will._   
_MH_

Sherlock’s heart was pounding in his ears, his throat had closed in panic, he could barely see the screen in front of him past the wave of nausea that suddenly overwhelmed him. His John would come back. He had to come back. Why wouldn’t he come back? He needed to come back. He would come back, right? Of course he would.

As a last ditch effort, a final desperate attempt, Sherlock tried calling his brother instead. It went straight to voicemail.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John loses his memory. Sherlock sees it as an opportunity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter. I may return to this later and make it part one of a series, but I have a lot of projects I'm currently working on that need completing before that can become a reality. Either way, this one's a bit longer than the last two, so I hope you enjoy ^_^

Two weeks. It had been two weeks since Mycroft had ruined everything and still no sign of John.

Sherlock had gone very, very far out of his way to locate him---John’s sister, Bart’s, Mike, friends from his time in the service, that classmate from Uni Sherlock had never bothered to remember the name of let alone pay attention to stories about---but it seemed Mycroft was doing everything in his power to keep Sherlock away. Or rather, keep John so properly hidden that any chance of salvation was growing steadily and steadily dimmer.

And that’s what John was, Sherlock mused. His salvation. Always had been and always would be. And while he didn’t regret his decisions to keep John---this John, new John, _his_ John---safe from the damaging memories of his past, Sherlock couldn’t help but think he’d made a terrible mistake. At least in how he’d gone about handling the whole situation.

“I’m not asking you again, Mycroft. Just tell me where he is. I can fix this,” Sherlock all but growled into the phone, running a hand over his face as he paced the length of the sitting room for what certainly must have been the millionth time. He’d checked Molly’s and Sarah’s again today, but still nothing. Either they honestly didn’t know where he was or they’d finally decided to learn how to lie. Regardless they were of no help to him now. He didn’t bother checking with Lestrade after his last attempt.

“Who do you think called your brother?” Lestrade had practically snarled at him, not bothering to hide his disgust. “What you were doing to John… It borders on the sadistic, Sherlock. You needed stopping, and he was the only one with the power to do so.”

Sadistic, Greg had called him. _Sadistic…_

Sherlock hadn’t bothered responding. The man clearly didn’t understand if he thought that what Sherlock was doing had been any form of sadism. No. Nowhere near that. Sherlock loved John. Sherlock needed John, would never hurt John, couldn’t imagine life without John. The thought of damaging him in any way caused Sherlock physical pain. A sadist he was not. What he was, was going insane, ripping himself to shreds at the thought that he might have, in his attempts to fix John, give John something only Sherlock could give, done just that: damaged him. Or, at the very least, lost his John forever. It was all very frustrating and contradictory and if Mycroft could get off his high horse for one minute, Sherlock could fix it. He could fix all of it. He could. He had to.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock repeated, sitting himself down on the couch with a heavy flop. “Mycroft, please.” He hated that it had come to this, begging something, anything, of his brother. But this was John. If he was forced to beg for anyone… “You have to tell me where he is.”

“I’ve given him my word, Sherlock,” Mycroft sounded bored. It made Sherlock’s skin crawl, his chest tighten in painful aggravation. “He’ll remain invisible to you until such time that he wishes you to see him again. If ever.”

“I’ll hack into your database,” Sherlock huffed, resilient, if only just because he knew himself defeated. At least on this front. “I’ve done it before. If you force me to I’ll-”

“Just stop this, Sherlock.” Mycroft hissed, raising his voice to what Sherlock remembered from childhood as his “If you don’t come back here right now, I’ll let father deal with you instead,” voice. It was followed, as that voice most often was, by a barely restrained sigh. “I warned you about this. You simply chose not to listen.”

“Warned me?” Sherlock choked. “You _caused_ this, Mycroft!”

“And with good reason!” Mycroft shouted back, which was unusual. Enough so that it had Sherlock mentally coming up short. Mycroft never shouted. Not unless it was something important, something Sherlock wasn’t getting. Before Sherlock could wrap his head around it, however, Mycroft was talking again, that bored strain in his voice back with a vengeance. “When John left me, he was confused and broken. That sort of betrayal will take time to-”

“I didn’t betray him.” Sherlock shook his head, covering his eyes with his free hand. No, no, no. That wasn’t right at all. What Sherlock had done wasn’t betrayal. He’d taken John’s trust and given him something better than truth. He’d given him the life Sherlock had always wished upon him. How was that a betrayal? “I helped him.”

Mycroft was silent for so long that Sherlock nearly hung up out of spite twice, but eventually his brother sighed again, long and harsh and so very, very tired sounding. “I know you believe that, Sherlock. I can hear it in your voice.” He paused once more before adding, “I’m sorry, but you’re wrong. And I think you need to prepare yourself.”

“Prepare myself,” Sherlock whispered, feeling his eye twitch in irritation; he was parroting now?

Sherlock could almost picture Mycroft bracing himself for the words, trying to lay them out gently but unwaveringly. “For what you’ll do if he doesn’t come back.”

It took far too long for the dial tone to register in Sherlock’s ear.

_If John didn’t come back…_

But he had to come back, didn’t he? They were Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. They needed each other. But if John didn’t come back- No. No, that wasn’t possible. He had to. John wouldn’t leave him for good. John couldn’t. He’d find him, he’d make him understand that what Sherlock had done was for his own good, that Sherlock had only meant to help him, to cure him, to love him like he deserved. He’d find him. If John didn’t come back, he’d find him. If John didn’t come back. If John didn’t come back.

If John didn’t come back, Sherlock didn’t know what he’d do. There was no point in any of it without him.

 

“I’m sure he’ll come round, dear. Your domestics never last,” Mrs. Hudson patted him lovingly on the head as she placed a small plate of biscuits in front of him. Sherlock had been surprised to find that Mycroft hadn’t told her about John; she’d heard of his head injury but beyond that, it seemed she thought the same of their relationship as before. It was more likely than not an attempt to keep around a caretaker now that John was-

Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t know, Mrs. Hudson,” he mumbled, pushing a biscuit around on the plate with his finger. He wasn’t hungry, hadn’t been for ages. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. John would remember.

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson cooed, sitting down next to him and grabbing his hands. “With the way that boy’s been looking at you lately, I’m sure he’ll be walking through the door any minute now.” Sherlock felt his chest tighten. What if he never got the chance to see that look on John’s face again? What if he never got to take John apart again, piece by piece, until he was writhing and gasping and moaning underneath him? What if Mycroft kept John so well hidden that he’d never be able to see John, just look at him, even from a distance, ever again?

“No,” Sherlock wrenched himself to his feet, Mrs. Hudson’s chair clattering to the floor. Mrs. Hudson pulled back, startled. 

He couldn’t leave it like this. Surely there were places he’d had yet to look, files he hadn’t thought to hack. There was still time, still ways he could fix things. If John was out there somewhere, Sherlock would find him. He would find him and bring him back home where he belonged, even if it meant dragging him back by force. John was still injured, still healing. He didn’t understand the whole situation yet, couldn’t possibly comprehend what Sherlock had been doing, especially since Mycroft had lured him away before any real progress could be made.

Without a word to Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock rushed back up to their flat and grabbed his coat, looping the scarf around his neck as he scrambled down the stairs and to the front door. He’d start with Scotland Yard, get in under the guise of looking over cold cases, get access to their hard drive, surely he could uncover _something_ Mycroft might have missed. Sherlock turned up the collar of his coat and opened the door. Lestrade would be out on break for another forty-eight minutes, plenty of time to-

Sherlock nearly collided with the person meandering in the entryway, pulling back with a mind to lash out in impatience before stopping dead. The only word that managed to crawl its way up his too tight, too dry throat was, “John.”

It shouldn’t have surprised him that John walked past without a word, letting himself into their flat like he still belonged there--- _which he did, he did, he always would, he had to_ \---like he’d never left, but Sherlock found himself stunned regardless, not just by John’s silence, but by his presence entirely. It wasn’t until that moment that Sherlock truly realized he hadn’t expected John to come back at all. If anything, he’d expected to have to drag him back to Baker Street kicking and screaming. He decided not to dwell on how viable an option that had been.

“John,” Sherlock said again once he’d followed John up to the sitting room. John was facing away from him, standing at the window with his hands balled into fists at his side, knuckles white. The continued silence was maddening, but when Sherlock went to break it again, John flinched.

“Don’t.” John hissed, head falling slightly and shoulders rising up by his ears, trembling. By the reflection in the window, Sherlock could see John’s eyes were clenched shut just as tightly, everything about him tense. “Don’t you fucking dare. Not another word.”

“But John, I-” Sherlock tried, taking an involuntary step forward and reaching out. He had to understand. If John would just let him speak, he could make him understand. But John chose that moment slam a fist against the window so hard Sherlock swore he heard it crack.

“No! You keep your fucking mouth shut, you hear me? Or else I’m gone. Back out that door like I bloody well should be!” His words choked off, John’s hand shaking as he ran it over his face. “So just… Just don’t, okay?”

Sherlock let his arm fall back to his side, his hand gripping the fabric of his dressing gown as he nodded, biting his lip as if to silence himself further. If that’s what John wanted. The overwhelming, suffocating quiet stretched on for what felt like hours then, enveloping them both in thick, tense awkwardness. It was almost physically painful, the sound of John’s soft inhale before he began speaking again almost tangible, a string pulled taught and about to snap.

“Do you have any idea what it’s like?” He whispered, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a stack of crumples papers. Files. They shook as he held them. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done to me, Sherlock?” He turned around then, and for the first time since the shock of seeing him standing on the porch, Sherlock got a good look at him. Even in the dim light of the evening it was easy to see his eyes were red-rimmed and tired looking, bags like bruises underneath. His face had a good few days’ worth of greying stubble and his hair was a disheveled mess. He was wearing one of his old jumpers, probably one left behind at Sarah’s or Janette’s or Harry’s, wherever Mycroft had hidden him. Sherlock felt something tug behind his breastbone. Even rumpled and worn, there was something about seeing John in that jumper that hurt, like a bad memory made bearable with time, but still aching.

It seemed John was waiting for something, an answer to his rhetorical question, so Sherlock shook his head and kept his teeth pressed firmly against his bottom lip, willing John to go on. Because maybe, when he was done, he’d let Sherlock do some talking as well.

John rolled his eyes, narrowing them hotly before glancing down at the files still clutched tightly in one hand. “It feels like I’m being torn apart, like I’m two people, like I have two lives battling for dominance inside my head and it’s killing me, Sherlock. I can’t function like this. Twice, I tried to… after I found out, I couldn’t…” Sherlock felt something very much like panic run in a cold rush down his spine. Suicide wasn’t supposed to be an option anymore, he’d made sure of that by deleting Afghanistan. John wasn’t supposed to still want to, wasn’t supposed to still need that escape. For the first time in a long time Sherlock felt genuine hatred for Mycroft. John turned back towards the window, clearly too emotional to handle facing Sherlock at the moment. “There was no other way, was there? Not when living felt like being ripped in two, off balance and damaged beyond repair, never sure of what was real and what was just some story you made up to restrain me.”

 _Restrain? No, I-_ “John,” Sherlock tried without thinking, and John let out an abrupt and wanton sound of protest, holding up a hand behind himself to silence Sherlock again.

“I’m not done.” He said after a moment, lowering his hand and turning around. “I’ve got plenty left to say and you’re not to open that bloody mouth of yours again until I’m through, understood?”

Sherlock flinched. The inflections were familiar and harsh, heavy with authority; not a request from his John, but an order from Captain Watson. Sherlock felt that tug in his chest tighten, strangling him from the inside. He was losing him. He was losing him. John eyed him stonily, waiting for recognition of his demand, shoulders barely loosening an almost unnoticeable fraction when Sherlock nodded. Maybe he’d already lost him.

“You know what’s really sick?” John said after a moment. Sherlock knew it was rhetorical, but he still found himself wanting desperately to say something, do something more than just wait for John to get to his point so Sherlock could get to his. So Sherlock could make John better again. “What’s really fucking twisted is that… When Mycroft gave me the files, I thought they were fake. I thought he was trying to trick me into thinking that you’d played me so that I would hate you or leave you or… Something. I was willing to believe anything else than what you’d done because I trusted you _that_ much.”

_Trusted. Not trust, trusted. Past tense. Sherlock swallowed thickly and stayed quiet, knowing there was more._

“But then, the more I read, the more right it felt. And wrong. Like I could see myself being shot in two places, Afghanistan and to save you. I could see myself helping you solve crimes and working on patients. I could see myself in a life with you, happy and exciting and ridiculous in a good way but I could also see myself in other relationships, hazy relationships with women I cared about and-” John sighed again, running a hand down his face once more before finally turning back around. “I wanted so badly to believe in the parts of me that had you in them. But after what you did, I can’t tell what’s real anymore. If any of it was.” John smirked, the look all wrong, lacking amusement completely. “It almost makes me wonder if we had any sort of relationship at all before. Were we even really friends? I mean, would a friend put me through what you did?”

That same terror gripped ruthlessly at Sherlock’s heart as John finally stopped talking, letting the silence weigh heavily between them for a moment. So Sherlock jumped on it, recalling the words that had healed them once before. “I don’t have friends,” Sherlock tried, John letting out an exasperated half laugh in response.

“No surprise there,” he sniffed, but Sherlock wasn’t finished. Just like before, it was the next words that mattered.

“I only have one.”

John’s eyebrow raised a fraction, as if the words were familiar, and Sherlock felt the terror gripping his chest loosen a fraction. That is, until John asked, “And who might that be? Yourself?” Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but no sound would come this time, John’s words sitting heavily in his throat, choking him. For the first time, Sherlock was starting to realize what he’d lost, not just in his John, but in the John from before, the one that had changed Sherlock as much as he’d tried to change him.

“This is stupid,” John sighed abruptly, walking past Sherlock without warning, heading towards his room. Their room. No, Sherlock’s room. It was all so confusing now. “I wasn’t supposed to come here at all, you know? For obvious reasons. Mycroft was going to send someone to pick up my stuff, but I wanted to do it. I told him I could handle it.” Sherlock felt another wave of hatred for his brother settle permanently in the pit of his stomach. John walked into the bedroom and grabbed a bag from the closet, stuffing some items and clothes inside. Sherlock tried not to feel anything at all when one of those pieces of clothing turned out to be Sherlock’s pajama bottoms. “I guess it was foolish of me to think talking to would help any. I just… I guess I needed to try. For closure. Or something.”

_Closure._

Sherlock was at the door before he’d even made the cognitive decision to move, slamming it shut, barring them in. As expected, John reacted instantly, shoulders tensing, body swiveling towards him in stunned suspicion.

“Sherlock… What are you-?” He tried, but Sherlock shook his head, John’s words choking off into nothing as realization began to sink in. Still, just to be certain---because John could miss the most obvious things when he was on edge---Sherlock cleared his throat.

“I’m not letting you leave until we’ve sorted this out.” _I’m not letting you walk out of here at all if I have to. Not if watching you walk through that door means I’ll never see you again. Not if you intend never to come back._

John frowned. “There’s nothing left to sort out, Sherlock. It’s done. Whatever twisted fantasy you’ve created with us is done. _I’m_ done.”

“You can’t possibly expect to comprehend the situation without all the variables. You’re being incorrigible.”

John raised an eyebrow at that. “Incorrigible,” he parroted, shaking his head as he shoved the last of his things in the bag and then let it drop to the floor. “You can’t keep me in here indefinitely, Sherlock. That’s kidnapping.”

“You live here,” Sherlock reminded him, because it was still true. Whether or not he wanted to believe it, Baker Street would always be his home. He had to know that. He had to feel that. He didn’t belong anywhere else. Just here, in 221B, with Sherlock.

“Not anymore,” John crossed his arms. “I’ve been looking at flats in-”

“You live _here_ ,” Sherlock said again, hoping somewhere inside John was appreciating the repetition.

John grabbed his bag off the floor. “Get out of the way, Sherlock,” He frowned. Sherlock locked the door, John’s hand tightening just so on the bag’s strap.

“No.”

“So what, then?” John threw the bag into the corner, his anger rising. “Are you going to tie me up? Keep me held hostage? Add a little physical abuse to the mental and psychological torture you’ve already racked up?”

“John-”

“Actually, if you count forcing me to sleep with you as rape, you’ve already done your share of physical damage, not to mention emotional.”

Sherlock’s mind stopped completely, halting like a car crash on the words. _Forced, rape, emotional damage, psychological abuse…_ No. No, John simply didn’t understand. He couldn’t see what Sherlock was trying to do. He had to get him to see. He had to get him to realize how much he-

“You enjoyed yourself,” Sherlock heard himself whisper. John froze.

“Excuse me?”

“It wasn’t rape. You not only enjoyed yourself, but you reciprocated. On numerous occasions you even asked for it.” That wasn’t what he’d meant to say. That wasn’t what he’d meant to say at all, but he couldn’t seem to stop talking. “You wanted me. Even before. You’ve always wanted me this way, you just didn’t want to admit it.”

“Stop.” John nearly growled, his hands shaking with the intensity to which he was clenching them into fists at his sides.

“I never forced you. I only allowed you to have something you’d always craved, something you’d always been too afraid to ask for.”

“Stop it, Sherlock. Right now.”

“None of what I did was meant as abuse or torture,” Sherlock rephrased. “I was merely giving you the chance to have the life you deserve. Maybe even the life you never realized you’d desired.”

John shook his head hard enough that Sherlock thought he might give himself whiplash. “You put all that in my head! I don’t even know what’s mine anymore! How do I tell if it’s something that I want or something that you want, that you put there to-to-”

Sherlock took a step forward and out of reflex, John took a step back, nearly knocking the lamp from the bedside table. So Sherlock stopped, holding his hands up in defense for now. “What if they’re both the same thing?”

“What?”

“What if we both want the same thing? Then it won’t matter.”

“There’s no way to know that, Sherlock. You rewrote me. There’s no way to know what I would have wanted before-”

“You trusted me once,” Sherlock tried. “Trust me again.”

John looked lost, broken, like he didn’t know whether to crumple into the corner, jump out the window, or fight Sherlock to the door. Eventually, his face fell, his eyes growing heavy, tired, scared. “I want to. God, with every fiber of my being, I want to.” He looked Sherlock in the eye, the whole world narrowing into that one spot, that one moment as John choked out, “But how can I?”

“Because you love me,” Sherlock replied as if it were the most obvious thing on earth. John shook his head again, but it was a defeated motion at best.

“Part of me does,” he sighed. “I can’t tell if it’s just because of you, because of all this, or if it’s been that way for a long time, but I do. A part of me loves you so much it hurts.”

Sherlock felt his heart stutter at the admission, a stretch of excitement and warmth blooming across his chest, wrapping him in hope and joy and- Sherlock caught back up to himself, forcing himself to ask the words he knew he needed the answer to. “And the other part?”

John held his gaze with a severity and intensity that left Sherlock breathless. “The other part of me can’t stand the sight of you.”

Sherlock expected as much, but the words still cut him deeply, that warmth from a moment ago evaporating like steam, leaving him cold and anxious, his mind searching for a way to fix this. Any way. His answer all but jumped out of his mouth when he found it. “What if I told you I loved you too?”

John flinched. “Don’t do that.”

“It’s true, John,” he kept on, willing John to hear the reality in those words. He may not have voiced it aloud until now, but that made it no less true, and it was the only thing that might work. “I’ve loved you since the moment you killed the cabby to save my life.” A realization he hadn’t had till that moment, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t fact. To his surprise, John scoffed.

“I killed a man for you now?” He rolled his eyes and placed a hand to his own shoulder. “Like how I took a bullet for you?”

Sherlock blinked, frowning when he remembered John’s file, that he’d gone out of his way to remove all traces of John’s involvement in the shooting, just in case Lestrade ever needed proof against him. Another important memory forever lost. “You saved my life countless times over,” Sherlock went on instead. “I was simply attempting to save yours this time.”

“By making me forget about Afghanistan? Making me think we were a couple? How does that make any sense, Sherlock?”

“Because you wouldn’t have realized you loved me any other way.” Sherlock explained. “There was too much at stake before, too much clouding your judgment. You were too set in your ways to realize what we could have. Losing your memory was the perfect opening to-”

“My memories are what make me who I am, Sherlock!” John groaned, sitting himself down heavily on the bed. “Without them, I’m just a blank slate. An empty canvas you decided to fill with whatever suited you best, and I can’t forgive you for that.”

Cautiously, Sherlock sat next to him. “I was only filling that canvas up with the best parts of you,” he said, grabbing John’s hand. John tensed, but didn’t pull away. “I wanted you to see what living could be like without the painful memories, how much lighter the world would feel without being weighted down by your troubling past. I wanted you to have the life you should have had from the beginning, the one you deserve to live,” he reiterated again, raising John’s hand to his lips and kissing each knuckle in turn. Despite himself, John’s hand relaxed in Sherlock’s grip, Sherlock barely suppressing his smile. “I had only your best interest at heart, John. You have to believe that.”

“Like you got nothing out of it,” John mumbled, looking down at his lap. But he still hadn’t pulled away.

“I won’t deny that it’s also something I’ve always wanted, something I’ve secretly hoped for for a while now,” Sherlock admitted, angling his body more towards John and raising a hand to his cheek, cupping John’s face against his palm. John nuzzled into it without thinking. “But I would have never forced you. I would have let you come to your own conclusions, always secretly hoping you’d realize.” He ran his thumb across John’s bottom lip, stomach tightening when John parted those lips involuntarily, the tip of his tongue brushing against Sherlock’s skin. “Losing your memories was like being forced back to the beginning, forced back to a place where we were even less likely to be together, and I couldn’t let that happen.”

“You don’t think,” John turned his head away, not pulling out of Sherlock’s palm but settling it against the back of his skull instead. “Maybe I could have fallen in love with you before, without your help?” Sherlock thought it over, tried to imagine John choosing him over his slew of girlfriends, his job, his friends. It was strange, but as much as the evidence leaned towards the negative, Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to deny that it might have been possible. If he’d had the patience, if John had never gotten amnesia, maybe they could have. Maybe John would have chosen him anyway.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock whispered at last. “Possibly.”

John chuckled, the sound flat and humorless. “I guess we’ll never know now, will we?” 

“John,” Sherlock whispered, forcing John to look back at him before leaning in to place their foreheads together. “In the hospital, when you saw me for the first time, you thought I was your boyfriend.”

“Because you kissed me,” John whispered, breath hot and ticklish against Sherlock’s face.

“But it was more than that, wasn’t it.” Sherlock continued. “What did you see? How did I act when I came in?”

John closed his eyes for a moment, trying to work his way back to his first memory after the accident. Keeping his eyes shut, he said, “You looked frantic. Relieved, like you’d thought I was dead. You were barely in the room for a second before you started hugging me. Kissing me.” John added a bit lower, voice soft but rough. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I didn’t realize you had amnesia then,” Sherlock smiled, surprised at the blush he felt spreading across his cheeks. “The moment I realized you were alive, I couldn’t seem to help myself. I wanted to pull you into my arms and never let you go. I wanted you to never have to suffer again.”

John looked stunned, lips parted in disbelief. “But… What does-?”

“That was our first kiss,” Sherlock added, not sure why it was relevant, but John sucked in a breath, looking away as a flush colored his neck and cheeks a lovely shade of pink.

“You didn’t know,” John tried again after a moment. “When you saw me in the hospital, that was how you really felt.” Sherlock nodded. “So maybe… Maybe that’s how I felt too.” John scrunched his eyes closed tight for another long moment, Sherlock struggling to follow John’s train of thought, but it was a bit distracting when John kept licking his lips unconsciously, his hands settling on Sherlock’s upper thighs. When John didn’t go on, Sherlock ran his own hand comfortingly along John’s arm.

“John?” He whispered in lieu of prodding. John opened his eyes, pupils blown wide, looking dazed.

“When you walked in, I had no idea who you were, but still, I…” John laughed weakly. “I was so happy to see you. My heart literally jumped at the sight of you, God. I felt like I’d been waiting for you to show up without even realizing it.” Sherlock felt his heart rate increasing, the corner of his mouth tugging up into a smile as John went on. “And then you were hugging me and kissing me and it felt surprising, shocking, but wonderful, like I’d been wanting you to do it for years. But I didn’t know you, couldn’t remember your face, so I just assumed. If I was reacting that way just by being near you, just from one kiss, then surely...” John laughed again, the sound breathy, strained. “Surely we were already,” he licked his lips again, leaning in, eyes locked on Sherlock’s mouth. “We were already…” John’s lips were just barely touching his, feather-light touches of breath and sound. “This,” John breathed before capturing Sherlock’s mouth with his own, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth until Sherlock was gasping.

Suddenly John was on top of him, straddling his lap as he attacked his mouth with teeth and tongue, breaking away to suck patches of color into Sherlock’s neck and collarbone, fingers making quick work of the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt. Once the fabric was open and parted, John began kissing his way down, tongue dipping into Sherlock’s navel as he undid Sherlock’s belt and zip with shaking but determined fingers. Sherlock hissed at the blast of cold air against his cock, back arching off the bed as John pulled his pants and trousers off and away, leaving Sherlock naked from the waist down, shirt open and tucked into his elbows, while John loomed over him completely clothed and suddenly looking a bit out of his depth. 

Sherlock pulled himself up and reached out, cupping John’s face in his hand again to dissuade any lingering doubt. He couldn’t allow John to be hesitant now, not when they were so close. John was back within his reach. He wasn’t letting go of him again. Wasting no time on his own uncertainty, Sherlock pulled John into another deep, heady kiss, sucking John’s tongue teasingly before pulling away.

“Fuck me,” he whispered into John’s ear, not so much seeing John’s shutter as feeling it, shared between their two bodies. John kissed him again, nowhere near as slow and deep but frantic desperate equally as passionate, nipping at Sherlock’s lips and breathing into him as he reached past to grab the bottle of lube from the nightstand, remembering where it was without thinking.

Sherlock knew what to expect, knew the logistics of it from his experiences on John, but there was nothing that could have prepared him for the feeling, the sensations that wracked his body as John’s slicked fingers breached the tight ring of muscle and stretched him wide. It was overwhelming, sensory overload, bordering on painful when John added another finger, but all the while, he couldn’t ignore the thrill that they were John’s lips against the inside of his knee, John’s fingers curving inside him, searching. And when they found the bundle of nerves that sent tendrils of pure electricity through every nerve ending in his body, Sherlock almost came then and there. But then John was pulling away, leaving Sherlock empty and hallow and wanting, wanting John, needing John. He could have been mumbling those needs aloud for the looks John was giving him, his eyes hazy with lust, but still reluctant, like he was uncertain, hungry and desperate but unwilling to give himself up to this completely, not again. So Sherlock spread his legs a bit wider, looked up at John in a way he hoped conveyed every ounce of lust wracking his system, every ounce of love he felt for the one causing it.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John groaned, slicking himself and lining up with Sherlock’s entrance, carefully and slowly pushing himself in. He was still too tight, the penetration slick but burning at the invasion. Sherlock said nothing, gritting his teeth until Jon was pressed flush against him, buried to the hilt. It was all consuming, this feeling of being so completely filled with John, surrounding by and surrounding John. It was almost too much, and yet not quite enough. The conflicting sensations, feelings, emotions nearly driving him mad. “Hey,” he heard John whisper, felt John’s hand against his face and neck, soothing him. “You’re shaking.”

“Move,” Sherlock choked out. Because if John stopped now, he might stop forever, and if John was going to leave him, then the very least he could do was let him leave with this, give John this, leave John with his heart and his body and his everything if he could.

“Sherlock,” John whispered, unsure.

“Move. Please,” Sherlock leaned into John’s touch, kissed his palm once before looking John fiercely in the eye. “Fuck me like you mean it.”

The implications were heavy and final, John’s eyes widening a fraction before he lowered his lips to Sherlock’s neck and began to thrust. The angle was perfect, John’s cock sliding past his prostate on every stroke, his eyes rolling back into his head as a low and constant whine crawled up his throat. When John began to pound into him---almost as close as Sherlock, it seemed---Sherlock felt John’s fingers wrap around his neglected prick, barely working a minute long rhythm before Sherlock was spilling between them, his whole body tensing at the intensity of his orgasm. Even in the mind numbing aftershock of it, Sherlock could feel John coming, pouring inside him, filling him at last. Claiming him the way Sherlock had tried to claim John. For a blissful moment, his heart gradually slowing, the spasms of pleasure fading into lazy warmth, Sherlock could pretend they were alright, that this was the first of many perfect moments just the two of them, just Sherlock and John. Then John pulled out.

Sherlock winced, moaning despite himself as John sat up, reaching for a shirt he’d discarded in his haste to pack and using it to clean himself off before tucking himself back into his trousers. He’d never even bothered to remove his own clothes.

For a second, Sherlock was certain that was it, that John was going to get up, grab his bag, and walk out. He closed his eyes, waiting for it even, but then he felt John’s hand against his abdomen, the shirt cleaning away the stickiness from his own chest and stomach, reaching carefully between his legs as well before the touch and the shirt were gone. Sherlock sat up quickly, grabbing John’s wrist to keep him on the bed.

“Stay,” Sherlock pleaded.

“Sherlock,” John groaned, letting his head drop down, his hands gripping the bed sheets as if to keep himself grounded. Without warning, Sherlock lowered his head to John’s lap, resting a cheek against his knee as he held tighter to John’s wrist, his leg, willing John not to go. 

“Stay,” He said again, his third repetition of the evening. And if that wasn’t a sign of desperation…

John was silent for a very long while, somewhere in it his hand settling lightly atop Sherlock’s head, fingers tangling in the curls there as he stroked absently. Sherlock closed his eyes, waiting for whatever decision John was making, the decision that would mean the rest of Sherlock’s life.

“Okay,” John muttered at last, a weight lifting off Sherlock’s chest, a gasp of surprise leaving him in spite of himself. “But I don’t forgive you.” Sherlock was going to say something, anything, but John added in a harsh whisper, “And if you ever lie to me again, about anything. If you so much as pretend to have bought the milk when you haven’t, I’m leaving. And I’m never coming back.” Sherlock nodded against John’s lap, John’s hand tightening briefly in his hair. “You’ve wasted all your strikes, Sherlock. In fact, I shouldn’t even be considering this after what you’ve done. But,” John’s swallow was audible, his hand stilling atop Sherlock’s head, his voice distant. “I’m willing to try. I don’t know what in God’s name is wrong with me, but I am.” He sighed. “Maybe I just love you that much.”

Sherlock sat back up, leaning in to place a single, chaste kiss against John’s lips, capturing his gaze when he pulled away. “From now on, only the truth.”

“Shouldn’t be hard for you, I imagine,” John tried to tease, though it was clear his heart wasn’t in it. “You’ve never had a problem telling others what’s on your mind.”

“I don’t usually care what people think,” Sherlock said. “But I care what you think. I’ll always care what you think. So for you, only truth. No more lies. Even if they would only be meant to protect you.”

“I don’t need protecting, Sherlock,” John sighed again. Sherlock chose not to argue, instead, pulling John into his arms and resting his face into the juncture where John’s shoulder met his neck.

“I love you, John Hamish Watson, Doctor Watson, Captain Watson.” He pulled away, though not before placing a kiss to John’s pulse point and mumbling against the skin. “Only truth, always truth. I love you, John.”

“I love you too,” John mumbled back, his voice soft and tired, like he didn’t want the words to be true but couldn’t find the will to deny them. Sherlock swore to find a way to keep them there, to have them always be truth, John’s truth, their truth.

“We’ll fix this,” Sherlock whispered against John’s scarred shoulder, feeling John’s arms tighten around him, clutching to him for dear life. “I’ll fix this.”

“I hope you’re right, Sherlock,” John’s voice broke, no little amount of exhaustion and doubt underneath it. “I really hope you’re right.”


End file.
